“You look tired,” he says.
I don’t blink.
“I imagine you’re wondering why you’re here. Why your brother isn’t.”
Still nothing.
He lets out a quiet breath through his nose. It sounds disappointed.
“Silas didn’t hurt you too badly, did he?” he asks.
I give him one thing. I turn my head, slow, deliberate. Our eyes lock. I keep my face still, every muscle under control, even though my mouth tastes like copper and my jaw aches from how hard I’ve been holding it clenched.
And then I spit.
Right on his polished boot.
He stares at it for a moment. Not with rage. Not even annoyance. Just that same cold interest a cat shows a broken toy. He straightens, brushing invisible dust from his thigh, and takes a step back.
“I see the stories about you weren’t exaggerated,” he says, voice smooth as glass.
I sit there and breathe, slow and steady, eyes fixed on him like I’m memorizing where to put the knife.
He smiles once more. Then turns to leave.
“Enjoy the accommodations,” he says without looking back. “We’ll talk again. When you’re more reasonable.”
The door seals with a quiet click. My fingers curl into fists.
It’s a long time before it opens again.
When it does, the scent that drifts in is the same one that’s been hovering just beyond the reach of breath since I got here.
Fox.
Silas steps into the cell and closes the door behind him. No guards. Just him, a satchel, and the expression of a man who’s convinced himself he’s still in control.
He kneels beside me, slow and careful, opening the satchel and pulling out a small med kit. I don’t move.
“You’re bleeding again,” he says without looking at my face.
“I’ll live.”
“Could be infected.”
“Won’t be.”
He sighs, not dramatically, just quiet and tired. He reaches for my forearm, fingers brushing the raw line of skin just above the chain’s edge.
I jerk it back.
He doesn’t react.
“Let me clean it,” he says, softer now.
I stare at him. At the way the light catches the edges of his jaw, at the faint smear of something red under his collarbone. Training blood, probably. He doesn’t smell hurt. Just… worn.
When I don’t stop him this time, he takes it as permission and dabs the edge of the wound with disinfectant. It stings. I don’t flinch.
